‘Well done last week,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ answered Peter, trying not to let his pleasure show too much.
‘There might be some more jobs, if you’re interested.’
‘I am, definitely.’
‘But it’s not a game, Peter,’ said McMahon warningly.
‘I know that.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what can happen behind those walls?’ the teacher said, indicating the towering stone walls of the jail. ‘Do you know that any of us who are caught could end up there?’
Despite himself, Peter felt a tiny stab of fear – the prison really did look scary. But he had already decided that he was willing to take risks, so he kept his voice steady as he answered the teacher.
‘I know that, sir. But it’s not going to stop me.’
McMahon looked him directly in the eye, then nodded approvingly. ‘Sound lad.’
Peter felt a surge of pride; from McMahon, this was high praise.
‘Two other things, Peter, if we’re working together. One, never approach me again at the club about any of this. When we want you, we’ll make contact. OK?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the second thing is crucial. I mentioned it before but now I’m going to spell it out. You don’t ever, ever whisper a word of this. To anyone.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Not to your brother, not to your best friend – no one.’
‘I understand.’
‘You need to, Peter. Because if you reveal anything, it affects people’s safety. Including your own. Especially your own. Do you know what I’m saying?’
Peter swallowed hard, realising that he was being threatened. It came as a shock, but then he thought that this was something that would have to be said to every volunteer. And it made sense. In fact it was actually exciting, because it meant that he was now being taken seriously, that the things he would do were important. ‘Yes, I know what you’re saying, sir. And you needn’t worry.’
‘Good man. We’ll fish away here for a while, then you head off.’
‘Right. And … when’s my next job?’
‘Tomorrow. Do you know the Tolka valley at Cardiffs Bridge?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a package in my bait box. Deliver it to Willow Cottage. It’s up a laneway to the left of the bridge. Slip the package in your own bait box when you’re leaving, all right?’
‘Right.’
Just then Peter felt a pull on the line – he had hooked a fish. It seemed like a good omen and, excited by how things were going, he began reeling in the line.
Annie loved the scent of apple tarts baking. If she had to pick one smell that conjured up home this would definitely be it. It reminded her of when she was small and Ma used to let her use a leftover scrap of pastry to make the letter A, which Annie would place on top of the apple tart before it went in the oven. Now that she was twelve she didn’t do that any more, but she still liked baking with her mother. She particularly enjoyed it when, like now, it involved just the two of them together in the kitchen, with Da and her brothers out at work.
Susie was coming for tea, and Ma had the house looking spic and span for the first visit of her new friend. The good china had been set on the table, and even though Annie didn’t want too much of a fuss, she was still grateful that Ma wanted to make an effort on her behalf. Her mother had been encouraging also when a letter had arrived from Eccles Street convent. The vice-principal, Sister Immaculata, had outlined how the school was run, and the nuns’ ambitions for their pupils, and she had included booklists and details of what Annie would need in order to take part in school sports and elocution lessons.
The letter had confirmed that Sister Josephine would be their year head, and Annie had explained to her mother that she was the younger nun that Susie and she had met at the induction day, and that she seemed nice, and less strict than Sister Immaculata.
‘That all sounds great, Annie,’ Ma had said. ‘And elocution lessons, if you don’t mind,’ she added with a grin, ‘you’ll be the right lady!’
Annie had smiled in response, but in truth she felt a bit uneasy. She was excited at the idea of starting in Eccles Street, but she worried about moving into a new environment. Supposing that with elocution classes and well-off friends like Susie and Peter her family came to see her as different? It wasn’t that they would mean to. But people did tend to treat you differently when you made any kind of change, and only yesterday it had caused a run-in with Josie Gogarty, when Annie had been returning with messages from the shop around the corner.
‘If it isn’t Annie Reilly,’ Josie had said with a smirk. ‘Or should I say Lady Muck? I thought you’d have servants getting your messages.’
Josie had been making snide remarks ever since the announcement about the scholarship, and Annie was tired of it. Up until now Annie had mostly let it go, not wanting to fall out with the other girls on the road. This time, though, she decided to make a stand. She remembered how Peter had taken a firm line with the bully who mocked her at the Irish club, and she put down the shopping bag and looked Josie straight in the eye.
‘Can I ask you a question, Josie?’ she said calmly.
‘What?’
‘Are you angry at yourself because you’re thick? Or are you angry at me because I won a scholarship and you didn’t?’
Josie’s face flushed, and Annie could see that the other girl was furious. But now Josie was on her own, and without the back-up of her friends she seemed unsure how to respond.
‘You think … you think you’re someone, don’t you?’ she said finally.
‘Everyone is someone, Josie.’
‘You think you’re so smart.’
‘Smart enough to go to Eccles Street – and I won’t apologise to you for it. And if you don’t like that, take a running jump at yourself!’ Annie picked up her shopping bag and turned on her heel, leaving Josie dumbstruck.
It had been a satisfying victory at the time, although Annie knew that she had definitely made an enemy.
Now, however, she sat with her mother in the kitchen, all the cooking in hand as they awaited their guest.
Ma turned to her.
‘Annie?’
‘Yes.’
‘I just want to say… your da and I are delighted you’ve made new friends already. And … well I know we don’t normally say this, but …’ Her mother hesitated, trying to find the right words.
‘What, Ma?’
‘We’re just … we’re just so proud of you, pet.’
Annie felt a surge of affection for her mother and she reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘Thanks, Ma,’ she answered, then the knocker on the front door sounded, and she rose excitedly to her feet. ‘That will be Susie!’ she cried, and she made for the hall, her earlier worries forgotten as she went to welcome her friend.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Here’s a brilliant riddle,’ said Susie. ‘I run but I never walk, I’ve a mouth but I never talk, I’ve a bed but I never lie – what am I?’
‘A pest,’ answered Peter, lying back in the grass with his eyes closed against the strong June sunshine. He had gone for a picnic in the Tolka valley near Cardiffs Bridge with Tommy, Susie and Annie, and they had laid down their bicycles at a sheltered spot in one of the sloping fields leading down to the river.
‘Give us a clue,’ said Annie eagerly, and Peter smiled to himself, confirmed in his view that Annie would be competitive in everything she did. But she was a good sport too, and had taken her defeat in good grace when he had beaten her at table tennis the night she had joined the Irish club.
‘All right, a clue then,’ said Susie. ‘Let’s see…’
‘Make it a good one,’ said Tommy, ‘it’s too hot for frying our brains.’
‘OK, this thing in the riddle – there’s one near us right now.’
‘Near us?’ said Peter sitting up. He pointed at Susie. ‘A head case?’
‘You’re hilarious!’ she retorted, grabbing a handful of grass and throwing it at him.
‘Say the riddle again’ said Annie.
‘I run but I never walk, I’ve a mouth but I never talk, I’ve a bed but I never lie – what am I?’
‘Is it a dog?’ asked Tommy.
Susie looked at her brother quizzically.
‘How could it be a dog?’
‘Well there’s a dog outside one of the cottages down there at the bridge,’ said Tommy, pointing. ‘And dogs have mouths but they don’t talk.’
‘But they walk,’ said Annie.
‘Well, a lot of the time they run,’ argued Tommy.
‘And what about I’ve a bed but I never lie?’ asked Susie.
‘Dogs don’t have beds, they sleep in kennels.’
‘Ah for God’s sake! You’re not going to get it, are you?’ said Susie. ‘It’s a river!’
‘A river? Oh, that’s a good one,’ said Annie, ‘though we might have got it, if you hadn’t said.’
‘And we might have ham sandwiches if we had ham – if we had bread!’ said Peter, quoting one of his father’s favourite sayings.
‘We’ve something much better than ham sandwiches, haven’t we, Annie?’ asked Susie, the riddle suddenly forgotten as she pointed enthusiastically at their picnic bags.
‘Well, for people who like apple tart,’ said Annie.
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ queried Susie. ‘And this is the best apple tart you’ve ever tasted. I was down in Annie’s yesterday, and her mother is a brilliant cook! And dead generous too, she made me take home a whole tart.’
Peter could see that Annie was pleased at Susie’s praise, and he raised his hands as though in surrender.
‘OK, forget the imaginary sandwiches! It’s Mrs Reilly’s apple tart!’
Annie smiled, and Peter was glad that she was with them today. In the short time since they had met, he had grown to like her, and she fitted well into their group, even if her background caused the occasional awkwardness.
There had been a brief moment of embarrassment earlier when they were preparing to set off from his house on the picnic. It was several miles from his home in Glasnevin to the countryside around Cardiffs Bridge, and the others had all agreed that it would be best to travel on their bicycles. Annie had had to admit that she had walked to Glasnevin, not having a bicycle, and Peter had seen his mother’s surprise at Annie’s confession. His mother had been slightly over-polite to Annie, as she sometimes was when dealing with people she thought of as social inferiors, but the moment passed quickly, and Peter suggested that Annie borrow his sister Mary’s old bike, which had solved the problem.
He looked at his friends now, as Susie instructed Tommy to stoke up the campfire that they had lit with fallen wood. They didn’t drink tea very often at home. But it was part of the fun of a picnic to make tea over an open fire, and so they had brought a sealed, metal billy-can full of water, to be boiled on the burning wood.
Peter’s plan actually depended on the water, but as he watched the others, he felt slightly guilty about using them as cover on his mission. At the same time, it did make sense. If he had travelled alone to deliver Mr McMahon’s package to the nearby cottage the chances were that no one would have paid too much heed to him. But by travelling as part of a group of kids having a picnic it definitely looked that bit more innocent and natural.
Now he just had to create an excuse to visit the cottage, and as Susie and Tony busied themselves with the fire, Peter rose and crossed to the billy-can, prising off its tight-fitting lid.
He stepped forward, casually holding the container in his right hand, then he deliberately tripped up.
‘Damn,’ he cried, falling awkwardly and dropping the billy-can as he used his hands to break his fall. Tommy moved quickly to try and retrieve the fallen container, but almost all the water had spilt onto the grass.
‘Sorry,’ said Peter.
‘Now what will we do?’ asked Susie.
‘I’ll go down to one of the cottages and ask them to fill it,’ answered Peter.
‘Butter fingers!’ said Tommy mockingly.
Peter shrugged as though ruefully accepting the criticism, then he turned in Annie’s direction. She was looking at him curiously, and he felt a tiny shiver run up his spine. Did she suspect he had staged the fall? No, he told himself, it was probably his imagination. At least he hoped so.
‘Here, I’ll come with you,’ offered Tommy.
‘No, that’s OK, you look after the fire,’ said Peter, quickly lifting his bicycle and starting for the nearby road. ‘I won’t be long.’
Before Tommy could argue or either of the girls could offer to join him, he was on his way, swiftly guiding his bicycle through a gap in the hedge, then cycling down the hill towards the bridge. He knew this area well and soon reached the turn that led up a short lane to Willow Cottage. He rode to the cottage, then dismounted from the bike, parking it behind a hedge. He moved quickly now, opening the saddle bag and taking out the package that Mr Mc Mahon had given him yesterday to take home in his bait box. It was a soft, bulky envelope – certainly not guns or weapons – and Peter would have loved to know what it contained. He knew better than to peek into it however, and now he held it down by his side and knocked on the cottage door.
Before long the door was opened by a stocky man in his early sixties, with curly grey hair. He was unshaven and wearing a discoloured vest and moleskin trousers, and if he had been expecting Peter’s visit, he gave nothing away.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘I’ve been told to give you this,’ said Peter, indicating the envelope. ‘My friends think I’ve gone to refill my billy-can, so I can’t stay long.’
The man glanced around as if to make sure that Peter truly was alone, then he opened the doorway.
‘Come in,’ he said.
Peter stepped into the cottage, its interior dark after the sunshine outside. He got the smell of a dog, although none was to be seen.
‘I’ll take that,’ said the man, ‘You can get your water from the pitcher.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Peter, going over to the large jug of water on the kitchen table, and starting to fill the billy-can. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the man didn’t open the package, but slipped it into the drawer of a tall pine dresser.
Peter filled the billy-can, then turned back to the man, remembering his manners.
‘By the way, I’m …’
‘Don’t tell me!’ said the man sharply, cutting him short with a raised hand.
Peter was taken aback, and he realised that he must have looked a bit shocked because the man softened his tone now and spoke more sympathetically.
‘Better that way, son. I can’t give your name, you can’t give my name. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Good lad. I’ll let you be on your way so.’
‘Right,’ answered Peter. He was tempted to say that if the man was that keen to hide his identity he shouldn’t have left a letter on the end of the table, addressed to Mr Ned Morgan. Instead he said, ‘Thanks for the water.’
‘Sure. Up the Republic!’
‘Up the Republic!’ answered Peter with a smile, then he nodded farewell and went outside to retrieve his bicycle. Exhilarated at having carried out his mission, he put the sealed billy-can into the saddle bag, mounted up and cycled down the lane and back up the hill to his friends.
As he re-entered the field he saw that Susie and Tommy had the fire going well. He took the billy-can of water from the bike and handed it to Tommy.
‘Right, problem solved!’ he said cheerfully.
‘You’re still a butter fingers,’ said Tommy with a grin.
‘Yeah, and you supposed to be a star rugby player,’ said Susie in mock criticism as she raked the fire, clearing a place onto which Tommy could lower the billy-can.
Peter tried for a sheepish grin, then turned round to Annie. Once again he got the impression that she had b
een observing him, and while she simply gave a small smile he felt a tiny tingle go up his spine again. No, he told himself, she couldn’t know what he had been up to. But somehow, he sensed that she was sharper and more observant than Susie or Tommy, and that he would have to be more careful in future. For now, though, it was important to act as though nothing was amiss, and he looked Annie in the eye and smiled.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s have this famous apple tart!’
CHAPTER NINE
Disagreements were strange things, Annie thought, as she walked home from the Irish club with Susie, Tommy and Peter. Her father had always claimed that you couldn’t call someone a proper friend until you had a row and managed to get over it. Annie wasn’t sure about that, though she understood Da’s view that real friendships survived the odd storm. And tonight she had had her first disagreement with her new friend Peter.
It was late June now, and in the weeks that had passed since her first visit to Susie’s house her friendship with Susie, Tommy and Peter had blossomed. They had played rounders together, gone on picnics, had races in Nugent’s Field, and fished and swam in the river Tolka. There had always been playful arguing and teasing, but never a serious disagreement until tonight.
The four of them had been leaving the club to walk home when the subject of the Wilson assassination had come up. Field Marshall Sir Henry Wilson was a British MP who had been security advisor to the new Northern Ireland government, and earlier in the day he had been shot dead in London by two republican gunmen. Although Annie was aware that Peter held nationalist views, she had still been a bit shocked when he announced that he was pleased at the news.
‘He was retired from the army,’ she had argued. ‘He was just walking home and they shot him dead. How can that be good?’
‘He was the enemy, Annie,’ answered Peter unapologetically. ‘He was dead against Irish freedom.’
‘Then why didn’t they kill him when he was in the army? When the War of Independence was on?’
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